Range Detail
by Jayden Scott
Summary: Traynor has never been a soldier. Hell, she hasn't fired a weapon since basic. But she wants Shepard to look at her the same way she looks at her soldiers, with pride. So, she demands Shepard teach her to shoot. FemShep/Traynor.


**I wasn't sure I was going to post this to my account, because this prompt was mostly filled out of my own self-indulgence. But after the positive feedback I received on the meme, I decided to go for it.**

**Sum up the prompt, you say? Traynor is insecure because she is a communications specialist and not a hardcore soldier like Shepard, like all of Shepard's friends and former LIs. So she demands Shepard teach her how to shoot.**

**I spent the entire weekend training baby soldiers how to fire a rifle, so when I saw this prompt, I felt like I was meant to fill it. But it was more just for my own personal exploration of the idea, and I might have gotten a little in the weeds over it. So if it sucks, my bad yo. **

* * *

She wasn't eavesdropping. Not really. Not intentionally at least.

It was difficult to break the habits she had learned aboard the Normandy, even though the war had been over for nearly a year, and she had not been aboard the ship in nearly as long, now-Sergeant Samantha Traynor found it difficult to break her routine. Perhaps because every task had been so vital before, when even the slightest mistake might have meant victory for the Reapers and extinction for all sentient life, she wasn't able to fully adjust to her new life.

They lived in a house now, and while it did not have a white picket fence, it did have the latest security systems and communications suite probably of any residence on Earth. The savior of the galaxy still had a multitude of duties as the crippled galaxy tried to piece itself together, and the Alliance afforded her the best credits could buy. Shepard might not be in command of a frigate anymore, but she still needed every system running in top shape as every admiral, councilor, and leader in the galaxy wanted her advice and opinions.

There were times when Samantha was certain that all the politics and paperwork made her lover long for a straightforward battle or at the very least a small explosion. Shepard was a soldier to her core, and the long nights arguing with people on how to best distribute food supplies wore on her.

Samantha attempted to make things as easy as possible for her lover. Technically, she was still assigned as Admiral Shepard's (she would always be the _commander_ in her mind, regardless of any promotion) yeoman, but it was common knowledge that the real reason for her continued assignment was their relationship. She organized messages, brought her meals when she lost track of time, refreshed her coffee when it went cold, slid into her lap after particularly long vidcom conferences and nuzzled into her neck. But still, she wished Shepard wouldn't work so hard. She saved the galaxy, wasn't that enough to merit a vacation?

That was one of the reasons Samantha had been grateful for Kasumi's visit. She liked the light-hearted thief, and so did Shepard. She provided levity, a welcome disruption of monotony. They had other guests, mostly former crew members. Garrus had stayed for a few days, and so had Tali. Miranda had dropped by, and Traynor enjoyed all of their company, even if Miranda scrutinized her as if she were a dangerous insect that might need to be squashed. But Kasumi was different; she was lacking the military bearing the others possessed which was good for Shepard. She was funny and impishly mischievous, one of the few people capable of teasing Shepard and living to tell about it.

She knew that Kasumi and the commander had been lovers, before. But Samantha had no concerns on that score. She never doubted Shepard's love and dedication for her and knew Kasumi respected their relationship. Besides, for a thief, Samantha was confident Kasumi was wholly incapable of being malicious or sneaky in that respect.

So it did not bother her when they spent time together. Kasumi joined Shepard on her morning runs. The house was in the country, far enough away from any densely populated areas that the ruination of the war was not clearly visible. Shepard ran nearly every morning, down the long dirt road that crossed the meadow to their house, around the endless fields, and back.

Samantha was halfway through her morning ritual of systems checks when she heard the back door slam as Kasumi and Shepard returned from their run. Shepard laughed at something the thief said, and Samantha smiled at the sound. It was good to hear after so many months of solemnity, of oppressive anxiety and war. Her fingers flew over the terminal as she checked the communications of every room, one by one. Bedroom, second bedroom, kitchen…

"—I never would have guessed it, Shep." Kasumi's voice crackled in her headset, and Samantha was about to click over to the next room when she continued. "A communications specialist?"

"She's a sergeant now." Shepard's breath was still heavy from the physical exertion.

"I adore Samantha. She's adorable. She has that cute, innocent doe-eyed look about her. The kind that makes you want to just crush her with hugs and snuggle her to pieces." Samantha grinned at Kasumi's description of her. "But I wouldn't have imagined you with someone so… delicate." Her face flushed with heat. Kasumi thought she was delicate?

Shepard grunted, and there was a clank of glass. Samantha imagined her fighting with the coffee maker. For such a brilliant naval officer, Shepard was helpless in the kitchen. "She isn't delicate. She's a scientist. Not a soldier. She's not like us. Dammit!" Glass clanked again, and it was evident that she was losing her battle with the coffee maker. "Fix this damn thing, will you?"

"Oh, let me see. That only proves my point you know." Kasumi said. "You're a soldier. You break delicate things. You're all, 'Shep smash!' while Sam is more like… oh, I don't know, calculating the square root of pi and debating the finer points of classical music. She's an academic. I'm surprised you let her stay aboard the Normandy in the first place."

The blush only deepened on Samantha's cheeks. She knew she should stop listening, it was wrong to invade their privacy like this, and Shepard loved her she was certain. But, a tiny voice of uncertainty whispered in the back of her mind, and she left the channel open.

"I like classical music! Look, I wouldn't take her out in the field for damn sure, but she's brilliant. She more than earned her place aboard the Normandy. And, if you remember correctly, the Normandy was full of civilians."

Samantha felt her chest tighten. Shepard thought of her as a civilian? She fought the urge to throw the headset down and instead bit on her lower lip hard enough that the pain distracted her from the stinging behind her eyes. She wasn't a girly girl by any means, and she never claimed to be tough. But she wasn't a civilian. Sure, she had not fired or even held a rifle since basic training, but… it hurt that Shepard thought of her like that.

She thought back to all the functions she had accompanied Shepard to after the war, all the visits by her former squad members, how she had sat next to Shepard quietly, listening to her swap war stories with fellow comrades-in-arms. She remembered the jokes they made that she didn't get, the technical conversations of weapons specs and tactics that she could not comment on. There were acronyms she didn't understand, and stories she could not relate to.

If she were honest, it had always been a whisper in the back of her mind. A hint of uncertainty. She knew Shepard loved her; they loved each other, but Kasumi was many of the things that Sam wasn't. She was lethal. She had read the mission reports and understood exactly how frighteningly effective the thief was on the battlefield. Comments written by Shepard reflected how impressed the commander was by her tactical effectiveness in the field, how vital her actions could be to mission success.

All Samantha could contribute to "mission success" was information and technical details.

"No need to be defensive. Like I said, I love Samantha, and I can see she makes you happy. Happier than I ever made you. All I am saying is that I'm surprised, Shep. Can she even fire a weapon? I might be a nerd underneath all this tech, but I'm still pretty handy with a gun." Kasumi's voice was as friendly as ever, and as hurt as Samantha was, she still didn't think the thief meant to be unkind.

"Sammy isn't you. Stop blocking the coffee pot. She's a sweet, wonderful girl that deserves better than me." There was a pause, presumably as Shepard filled her coffee mug. "And I love her, regardless of whether she knows which end of the rifle to hold."

The conversation tapered off into other matters, the state of the galaxy, the latest news from Tuchanka now that genophage had been cured, Kasumi's departure later that afternoon, but Samantha had stopped listening. She went through the rest of her morning routine absently, her hands moving through the motions automatically. She felt hollow, as if all feeling had been sucked out of her leaving nothing but disappointment behind.

Shepard had said she didn't care whether or not she could hold a weapon, let alone fire it. She had said that she loved her no matter what. But would it make her happier if Samantha could do those things? Self-doubt wormed its way into her consciousness and gnawed at her stomach, her heart. Her mind brought forward memories of the commander pinning medals to soldiers, veterans of the final battle with the Reapers.

She had grinned at them, shook their hands and clapped them on the shoulders. She had leaned in and whispered to them, words meant for them alone. It was unmistakable. It had practically glowed around her like an aura, dancing in her eyes and clearly etched on her handsome features. Pride. Those soldiers had been part of the ground assault against the Reaper forces, men and women who had been at the heart of combat with Shepard. She had been so proud of those soldiers, her fellows-in-arms.

Samantha wanted Shepard to look at her the same way.

* * *

"Will you teach me how to shoot?"

Shepard froze, fork midway to her open mouth as Sam stared at her intently. She completed the motion and chewed the forkful of eggs thoughtfully before replying. "I'm sorry. I thought I was having breakfast with my girlfriend. Have you seen her?" She smiled and was puzzled when she didn't return it.

Sam had been quiet the previous day, withdrawn. Even after the shuttle had picked Kasumi up, she had seemed preoccupied but denied anything was wrong when Shepard had asked her about it. It was completely unlike the nervous but cheerful girl she had fallen in love with. Even in their darkest moments together, she always forced a smile, even through tears. This was the first time Shepard could remember Sam so distracted, pensive, as if the weight of something so horrible settled on her shoulders, so awful she could not voice it, even to Shepard.

Shepard felt her brow crease in concern, her cybernetics warming underneath her cheek. "Sam? What's wrong?"

"Teach me to shoot." Sam repeated, picking her plate up from the table. Shepard noticed she had only pushed her breakfast around on the plate, hardly eating anything.

"There is no need for it." Shepard raked her fingers through her hair, bewildered. Picking up her own empty plate, she followed the smaller woman to the sink. "Sam—"

Abruptly, Samantha turned and faced her, dark eyes intensely defiant. "I want you to teach me to shoot."

"Absolutely not." During the entire course of their relationship, they had never fought or even truly argued. But Shepard felt her expression tighten and was utterly confused by the uncharacteristic turn of Sam's behavior, her absolute insistence that she be trained to fire a weapon. What had gotten in to her? She felt her features relax and reached for her, to pull her close. "What's wrong, sweetie? You don't need—"

For a moment, it appeared as if Sam would allow herself to be gathered into her arms, to be held close, but she jerked away instead, a small trace of pain in her eyes swallowed by anger, defiance. "I'm a bloody soldier, and you're my commander. It's your job to make sure I'm trained properly."

The spike of anger was white-hot in her throat, and Shepard swallowed hard to force it down. It had always been a delicate line they walked, but they had managed flawlessly so far. Both women understood it was critical to separate their personal and professional lives. Traynor followed the commander's orders without hesitation, and they never used their positions against each other in their romantic relationship.

But now Samantha was blurring those lines, and picking which Shepard she wanted, pushing her away as a lover and prodding her as a superior officer that was borderline unacceptable. Fine. If that was what she wanted, Shepard would oblige. She glimpsed down at her omni-tool. "I have some time. Field utility uniform, in the armory, ten minutes."

* * *

"We're not going to fire in the range?" The old barn behind the house had been turned into a makeshift range and armory. But when Samantha had arrived, Shepard was already there with a set of several weapons laid out. She picked up an assault rifle and shoved it at the communications sergeant.

"No, you want to train, we're going to train. In the field." Shepard replied brusquely, slinging her own rifle over her shoulder and securing it in a holster strapped to her thigh. She felt a pang of guilt, of regret. Perhaps she had pushed Shepard a little too hard, appealing to her as soldier to a superior officer instead of her lover. It hadn't been fair, but neither had her refusal to teach her this one simple thing.

Like Sam, she was dressed in the basic combat utility uniform. It was a change seeing her armed without her armor, but irresistibly attractive. It was one of the reasons she had been so smitten with the commander when they first met.

She carried herself with the confidence of a titan. Even in dress uniform she appeared as if she could snap a krogan's spine with nothing more than an intense glower. Fully armored, she was a giant and unarmored she was not much smaller, all hardened muscle and unimaginable strength. Put a weapon in her hands and she was the epitome of a soldier. The power and authority she exuded was intoxicating, and Samantha had been drawn to her like an asari maiden to a stripper pole.

"You're beautiful," Samantha breathed as the commander pulled on a patrol cap and tucked her blond hair behind her ears.

"You're out of line, sergeant." Shepard said tersely, but a faint smile betrayed her. "C'mon." She placed her hand on the back of Samantha's neck and steered her out of the barn. "Let's make you into a grunt, pogue." The term was utterly lost on the communications sergeant, who had the term in passing muttered by front-line soldiers whenever she passed, but had never thought to ask the meaning of.

The meaning became clearer as Shepard broke into an easy run, and Samantha struggled to fall into step beside her.

It was hot, even for midmorning, and her uniform jacket already clung to her back with sweat. The place she had chosen for their range session was a mixture of sand and close-clipped grass. She had hung targets, human silhouettes, from trees, bushes, and fence posts. The ear plugs muffled all sound except for her own breath, her own steady heartbeat.

Shepard lay on her stomach, elbows planted in the pebbly sand with the butt of her rifle pressed into the pocket of her shoulder. The tip of her finger rested on the trigger as she settled upon a target a good three hundred meters away. The world fell away and she was only vaguely aware of the smell of the oil she used to lubricate her weapon, the breeze that ruffled errant strands of hair, the sting of sweat in her eyes, the sharp pain of irritating pebbles underneath her elbows. She breathed slowly, steadily as she lined her sights on her target, aiming center mass of the black silhouette. The breath she expelled was slow, and her fingertip gently depressed the trigger.

When the rifle actually fired, it came as a surprise. She was only loosely aware of the concussive sound of the bullet splitting the air, a deafening noise, but she felt it in her core. The rifle recoiled into her shoulder painfully; she forgot how hard this model assault rifle recoiled without the added padding of armor. Her nostrils stung with the acrid scent of burning gunpowder. Automatically thumbing the weapon to safe, she pushed herself up. She always wondered at that smell, how reassuring it was. Odd, that such a violent smell comforted her, but it did. It was the smell of familiarity, of home.

She stood, and the rest of the world rushed back to greet her. She allowed the dirt and red dust and grass cling to the front of her uniform, and slung the rifle over her shoulder. Turning, she faced her lover, who stared at her, dark skin slightly reddened by the sun and heat. After some careful consideration, she decided that Samantha must have heard at least part of the conversation she had with Kasumi the previous day. It was the only conceivable reason that accounted for her shift mood, her sudden interest in weapons, in combat.

But what perplexed Shepard was what Samantha could possibly believe she had to prove to her. Hadn't she said it did not matter to her one that she was more of a scientist than soldier? Hadn't she said she had fallen in love with the beautiful, sweet girl untainted by the same horrors that she was? That was part of the reason she loved Samantha; she was entirely unjaded by her military experiences. She had never been forced to place her emotions in her back pocket and press a weapon to her shoulder and take a life.

Didn't she know that Commander Shepard did not care whether or not her troops fired a weapon or hacked a terminal, so long as they did their job? She was not one of those ridiculously old-fashioned grunts, who frowned down on anyone who didn't rough it in the field and count their kills. Every soldier had a job, some were infantry, others were support, some were technicians. It did not matter to her, it never had. No job was any more or less important than the other.

She considered confronting Sam about it but decided to play along instead. Besides, a small part of her was still upset with Sam for bringing their professional relationship into this. If she wanted some training, then Shepard was going to give it to her, and make her regret it.

"That is how it should look when you fire this weapon. Your turn." She pointed at the ground, and Sam quickly, but clumsily complied. Despite her inexperience, she mimicked Shepard fairly well, but she wouldn't let her know that. Not yet. "You're moving like daggone pond water. Feet apart, wider." And without waiting for the younger woman to obey, she kicked her feet apart. "Cock one leg up, bend it at the knee. More. Good, it gives you a steadier position that way. Don't look at me. Once your cheek touches that stock you don't move it for anything; it ruins your sight picture. Line up your sights. I said don't look at me. You better unfuck yourself, sergeant."

Her elbows were rubbed raw by the coarse sand, her arms burned from holding the rifle in position, and all Sam could think about was how unbearably, wickedly hot it was. She wasn't sure how long they had been practicing, but it must have been hours. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she had neglected breakfast. But Shepard was a brutal taskmaster. Over and over and over again, she put Samantha through the same drills, until she was certain that she would repeat them in her sleep.

It was part of the commander she had never experienced before. She had seen the commander angry before, but then she had been quiet, terrifyingly so as she softly informed Private Westmoreland of the exact depth she would insert her rifle, horizontally, up her "fourth point of contact" if she ever caught her sleeping on duty again.

She had seen her upset, irritated, annoyed, furious… but this was none of those things. She wasn't angry, but she was direct and short. And despite her colorful choices of phrasing, she was patient, correcting each mistake, even repeatedly until Sam executed flawlessly. It was comforting, in a way. She knew that Shepard would not let her skate by or say "well, that's good enough." And even during the tensest moments in the CIC, she had never treated her so abruptly, after an hour or two she realized that Shepard was treating her like a ground troop, like one of her soldiers. She was holding her to the same miserable standard she held her infantry troops to.

Finally, she clapped her on the shoulder. "Good. That's good." Shepard had alternated between standing behind her as she fired, or kneeling next to her. At the moment, she knelt next to her. "You're actually a decent shot. That's enough. Drink some water." Samantha automatically switched her rifle to safe and rolled onto her back, reaching for her canteen. The water was hot, but she didn't care. Bloody hell. How did Shepard do this? It was miserable. No wonder she returned to the Normandy after every mission appearing as if she'd gone three rounds with a krogan and lost.

She pulled the plugs from her ears as she stood, groaning with the stiffness in her legs, the shaky weakness in her arms. Her hair clung to the back of her neck and brow with sweat, and her skin felt gritty. Despite the heat, despite the sun and dust, Shepard appeared a bit red-faced, but otherwise untouched by their training session. "I have a conference in twenty minutes," She said, glancing down at her omni-tool. "Or else I'd suggest we start practice with the sidearm."

Then, breaking from her role as The Commander, she placed her hand on the back of Sam's neck and kissed her cheek tenderly. "You did well."

Samantha blushed and grinned despite herself. "You did too. I didn't know you could be such a bitch," She teased, pausing long enough to be cheeky before adding, "ma'am."

At that, Shepard grinned. "Oh, sergeant, you have no idea. When we get back to the house, I want you showered and changed and waiting for me in the com room in thirty minutes. Now, double-time!"

* * *

The shower felt absolutely divine, and not nearly long enough. She rinsed all the salt and grime from her body, wincing as the water hit the skin on her overly-sensitive elbows and knees. Sam felt better. Better than she had since listening to Shepard and Kasumi's conversation about her. A part of her was still wavered with self-doubt, but most of it had been replaced by determination.

Quickly, she changed into a clean uniform and marveled at the feeling of freshly scrubbed skin against clean fabric. Had a shower and change of clothes ever felt so damnably magnificent before? Not bothering to dry her hair, she ran a brush through and tucked the damp locks behind her ears before jogging to the communications room. Quietly, as not to disturb the conference already in progress, she slipped in and stood behind Shepard, out of the way.

She wasn't listening to the conference, and she was never addressed so she simply waited, admiring the back of Shepard's blond head. She had changed as well, into her dress uniform. It baffled Sam how she had managed to clean up and change and appear so… bloody perfect in such a short time. Another mystery of the great Commander Shepard, she thought with an affectionate smile. Her chest ached with adoration. This was the woman who had saved the entire galaxy, who had succeeded where thousands of other species had failed, and she had chosen to be with her, with a simple, silly communications specialist.

God, she loved that woman. Everything about her. From her sly smirk to the way she flipped a pen in between her long fingers whenever she was bored, to the way she held Samantha at night with strong arms, making her feel as though nothing in the world could ever harm her so long as she was in Shepard's embrace. The patience she exhibited whenever she dealt with anyone, with everyone, as if everyone in the galaxy were a good friend worth her time and attention. Even her quirks of insisting on sleeping with the fan on high even when it was freezing outside or persisting on making the bed to military specifications even though they were in a civilian residence, were endearing.

Several moments passed before Samantha realized the holographic display had dimmed and the conference had ended. "Sergeant." Shepard did not turn around.

Samantha rounded the large, overstuffed armchair where she sat until she stood in front of her. "Commander." She slipped into the position of at ease automatically, the use of their ranks clearly indicating that they were still in their professional roles.

Without betraying a hint of movement, Shepard grasped her by the upper arm and spun her around, landing a hard swat on the seat of her trousers. "That was for eavesdropping on Kasumi and me. That," Another hard smack landed on her backside, and Sam squeaked. Shepard had smacked her ass before in jest, but these swats stung much more despite the playful nature still evident in them. "Is for using my role as your superior officer against me! And this," She felt herself spun around again and pulled into Shepard's lap, a loud, smacking kiss planted on her forehead. "Is because I love you, Sammy."

Sam relaxed into the strong grasp of her arms, rested her head on Shepard's shoulder. "I love you too." Calloused hands stroked her hair and another, gentler kiss was placed on her brow. "I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to listen in, but…"

"I don't care about that," Shepard said dismissively. "I just wish you would have talked to me about it. It would have been a whole lot easier than dragging you through a five hour-basic training session."

"I'm glad you did though." Samantha said, a bit guiltily. She knew how hard Shepard worked to ensure their love life was balanced with their military careers, how deliberately she distinguished between the two. It had been unfair of her to make such a demand of her commander, her lover. "I really am sorry."

"Look," The hand stroking her hair found its way under her jacket, her shirt to bare skin and began caressing there in long, even strokes of her fingers. "I didn't fall in love with an infantry grunt. I fell in love with you, Samantha Traynor. I fell in love with a beautiful, amazingly brilliant, clever communications specialist. I never want you to be anything other than what you are; you should be proud of who you are. I sure as hell am."

Sam tilted her head up, dark eyes searching her lover's of much paler green. "Are you sure?" She said, her voice sounding very small, very uncertain, as if she were afraid of the answer.

"I'm sure." Shepard affirmed and kissed her. It was a soft, gentle kiss, lips caressing instead of claiming, tongue begging entrance instead of taking it. In it, she felt Shepard pour all of the truth and conviction of her words, and Samantha melted into her, clinging to the front of her dress uniform with one hand and running her fingers through her short blond hair with the other.

"I just want to be good enough for you," Sam confessed quietly as they broke away, foreheads still touching but lips barely separated.

"You're too good for me." Shepard smiled that infamous smile of hers, the one that could make an elcor melt into a puddle of gooey emotions and helpless feelings.

Smiling, the younger woman snuggled deeper into her lover's lap, wrapping her arms around her and resting her head over her heart. "I do love you, you hardass." She grinned as she felt the rumble of a chuckle in the commander's chest. "Do you smack all your errant noncommissioned officers on the ass when they've been bloody foolish?"

Hand winding in her hair, Shepard gave her head a firm but gentle tug back and kissed her again, more insistently this time. "Just the incredibly cute ones." She teased.

"Then I might have to be bloody foolish more often." Samantha shot back and shifted in Shepard's lap so that now she was straddling her and rose up on her knees. She framed the older woman's face in her hands, dark skin against fair, and grinned. "Subject to your approval of course, ma'am."

Shepard groaned and pointedly rolled her eyes before hooking a hand in the front of Samantha's uniform and pulling her down for a heated, hungry kiss.

* * *

**Like I said, not my best work, but it was fun to write. Let me know what you think, dear readers. You know I got that hankerin' for some feedback.**


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